


Killing Steve

by ElisAttack



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Assassins & Hitmen, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Kidnapping, Killing Eve AU, Kinda, Linguist Steve, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Political Thriller, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-18 08:48:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16114958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: The Winter Soldier glances at Steve out of the corner of his eye.  Clothed from head to toe in black with a muzzle over his mouth, he's exactly as Rollins described.The most prolific assassin in the world reaches into the backseat, returning with a silenced pistol.  Which he points right at Steve.Or the one where Steve is a SHIELD analyst, Natasha is in a lot of trouble, and the Winter Soldier is a ghost.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has little bits of Veep, BBC’s Bodyguard, CATWS, and of course Killing Eve in it. It doesn’t follow the plot of Killing Eve, but they share similar flavours. It's closer to the plot of CATWS, but Steve and Bucky are both modern incarnations.
> 
> Also, I'm trying this new thing where I finish a fic before I begin posting. The fic is done, and updates will come every few days as I edit.
> 
> Enjoy!

**_Now_ **

It’s funny.  The deeper Steve stares into the forest, the stiller it appears, until it doesn’t seem like they’re moving at all.  The foreground is all blurred shapes, but the horizon’s a constant.

Steve’s never really been out of the city before.  Sure he’s traveled to concrete jungles on other continents for his job, but he’s a city boy through and though.  He’s never known anything but steel and rebar, and he was never good at sucking up to the legacy bureaucrats. The kind of guys who host weekend getaways in their upstate manors.  Old money. So much as money can be old in America. Europe has its royal families, but America has always had its politicians.

Tearing his eyes from the forest, he bites at the hangnail on his thumb, saying to his kidnapper,  “The least you could do is let me use the restroom.”

The Winter Soldier glances at Steve out of the corner of his eye.  Clothed from head to toe in black with a muzzle over his mouth, he's exactly as Rollins described.

The most prolific assassin in the world reaches into the backseat, returning with a silenced pistol.  Which he points right at Steve.

“The safety’s on, jackass.”  Steve rolls his eyes. “If I didn’t see you shoot my date, I’d think you were still a trainee.”

The assassin huffs, pointedly turning the radio on.  Steve sighs, sinking further into the seat while the assassin drives them god knows where to the beat of Kid Rock’s insipid whining.  He should have known Rumlow would have a terrible taste in music. If only he didn’t agree to that date. But he did agree, and now here he is.  He should be safe at Sam’s, curled up with Monty, watching reruns of _Parks and Rec_.  Instead he’s in a Jeep full of guns, in the middle of nowhere.

Abruptly, they turn down a dirt road, wheels skidding.  Steve scrambles for the handhold, hanging on for dear life.  The assassin slams on the brakes, and Steve jerks forward, saved by the seat belt.

Swearing, he spits,  “Is that how they teach you to drive at assassin academy?”

The assassin unlocks the doors.  Steve stares at him in confusion, but he just gestures with the gun, from Steve, to the woods.

“Really, here?”  The assassin waves the gun, threateningly.  “Great, thanks,” Steve says sarcastically. Climbing out, the assassin does the same.  Gravel crunches beneath their feet as they walk to the tree line. It's a nice day—not a bad one to die.  Christ. Who’ll take care of Monty when he's gone? Sam, maybe? He likes Steve's dog.

It's not that he thinks the assassin is going to shoot him in the back of the head while his dick is out.  It's just, he’s come to expect this kind of hostile work environment at SHIELD. Analysts don't go out in the field very often.  But when they do, they see shit that would make a grown man weep. If there's one thing he knows, it's that bad guys have a strange, but morbid obsession with killing people while they’re on the toilet.

The assassin coughs, and Steve stops in his tracks, tall grass brushing his ankles.  He looks nervously over his shoulder. The guy has an eyebrow lifted like Steve's the one inconveniencing him.

“A little privacy?”  Steve asks nicely. The assassin stares at him blankly.  “I'm not gonna pull it out with you looking at me,” he growls.  The assassin huffs, but does turn around.

That's when Steve strikes.

He swoops down and comes back up with a handful of gravel.  Grabbing the assassins middle finger, he yanks it up and back.  A kick to the back of his knee sends him sprawling, and Steve whips the gravel right in his face.  Dirty fighting, just like Nat taught him.

The gun goes flying somewhere in the bush, but Steve doesn't bother looking for it.  He hightails it out of there. Right for the Jeep.

Ducking behind the driver’s side door, he fully expects the assassin to find the gun, and shoot at him.  Instead there's nothing but the chirping of birds and the wind in the trees. Steve’s pretty sure he didn't do _that_ much damage.

Still low, he opens the door and slips inside.  He could just split, the key is still in the ignition.  No one would blame him. He an analyst, not at all field certified, but the Winter Soldier is a public risk.  He can't just leave without attempting to take him into custody. If he hurts someone, that's on Steve.

He grabs a pair of handcuffs, then a gun from the backseat, making sure the safety’s off, and that the clip is full.

Steve finds the assassin lying on his back, staring up at the sky.  Steve casts a shadow over him, and his eyes flicker to the gun Steve has pointed right at his chest.

“On your feet,”  Steve orders.

The assassin gets up, sweeping the dirt off his pants.  “Stop that,” Steve orders. “Hold still.”

Steve keeps the gun steady, and runs his hands up and down arms and legs, pulling knife after knife from various holsters and sheaths.  He ends up with the contents of a knife block, stowed far out of reach in the trunk. Jesus.

Steve slams the trunk shut, and glances over at the assassin, waiting patiently by the roadside.  Are his eyes crinkled? Is he smiling? This job, man, it sucks. Steve tosses the handcuffs to the assassin’s feet.

“Put those on.”

He does, and Steve sighs a breath of relief.  Great. Now he just has to get him back to DC.

***

**_Then_ **

“Did you hear,”  Nat says, sitting on the edge of his desk, two coffees in hand.  She uses her shiny louboutin to spin his chair away from his computer.  “The chancellor called the vice-president a—” she says something in German that’s not fit for polite company.

“Did he deserve it?”  Steve asks, taking the offered coffee.  He opens the lid, sniffing inside. Burnt.  Oh, the many pleasures of working in government.  At least she put in lots of sugar to make up for it.  Exactly how he likes it.

“Very much so.”  Nat takes a long swing from hers.  Making a face, she takes another sip, adjusting the framed picture of him and Monty that she knocked over.  He keeps it beside a photo of Winifred standing proudly with him and Nat at their university graduation.

“Good.  I have a new mission for you,”  he says, handing over a tablet. She types her password, and the screen opens to a picture of Jasper Sitwell, one of their field officers.  “Retrieval.”

“From the arrival gates at National,”  she says. “Someone’s still after him?”

“He was targeted mid-mission.  It risked blowing his cover, and the cover of those working with him.  He was extracted, and now we just need his official statement. Bring him home safe, Nat.”

“Targeted, by whom?”  She opens a image of the person who shot Sitwell.  It’s blurry, taken from a tourist’s cell as she snapped a selfie of herself over the Keizersgracht canal in Amsterdam.  Steve found it himself, scouring the social media accounts of tourists who tagged themselves in photos in the same area, around the time of the attempted assassination.

In the corner of the image a person with brown hair to their shoulders, dressed all in black, calmly walks across the bridge.  It’s the only photo they have. A search through CCTV footage from all over the neighbourhood produced nothing but jack squat. Whomever they are, man or woman, they’re effectively a ghost.

“Shit,”  she says, zooming in on the assassin’s back.  It’s just a mass of pixels, but whatever Nat sees has her eyes widening.  “It can’t be.”

“You recognize them,”  Steve says.

“Him.  Bastard shot me in Odessa.  Through and through. Killed the nuclear engineer I was escorting out of Iran.”

“That’s what happened in Odessa?  You told me you came down with the flu.”

“I get the flu shot every year,”  she says shortly. Sighing, she taps a finger against her jaw.  “It’s just… I don’t understand, I killed him. I mean, we never found the body, but I lobbed a frag grenade into his cover.  There’s no way he could have survived. We always figured he dragged himself away, and died in some ditch.”

“Iranian?”  Steve asks.

She shakes her head.  “He killed my engineer with Soviet bullets.”

“Okay,”  Steve nods, typing into the interface.  He brings up the failed Odessa mission, and links it to Sitwell's attempted assassination with a big question mark.  “Be careful out there, Nat.”

“I’m always careful,”  she pinches his cheek, “I’ll see you soon.”

Steve slips his earphones in, and gets to work.  There were hundreds of unsolved assassinations in this century alone—some high profile, some not.  Steve narrows the search to those that happened in the last decade. From there, he finds those that would have benefitted Soviet interests, then narrows it even further to bullets found with rifling marks made by a Soviet weapon.  He’s left with at least a dozen or so that fit the bill.

Steve leans back in his chair, spinning back and forth.  If these were done by the same man, he has to be the most dangerous assassin that’s ever lived.  Steve chews his bottom lip. It’s all unsubstantiated speculation, nothing more. He exits out the pages, and returns to work.

An hour after Nat left with her team, the secretary of defence himself shows up in a motorcade direct from the Pentagon in all his bespoke suit wearing glory, lackeys at his heels.

He keeps an office at the Triskelion.  Steve’s been inside a few times, mostly to take notes during meetings, and to translate information collected by agents.  It’s a brutalist nightmare, concrete and uncomfortable leather couches galore. A massive cornstalk tree looms by the seating area, and Steve’s pretty sure Pierce loves it more than he loves the American people.

Let’s just say Steve was hired during the previous administration.  The only reason he wasn’t replaced, like all the other analysts who made their political leanings apparent on social media, is because he’s damn good at his job.  Everyone loves to say defence is bipartisan, but they happen to be living in partisan times.

At Pierce’s signal, one lackey peels off, heading straight for Steve’s desk.  Quickly, he looks down at his monitor.

“Rogers,”  he says, coming around Steve’s desk to stand at his shoulder.

“Rumlow,”  Steve says, yanking out his earbuds.  Spinning his chair around, he comes face to face with Rumlow’s everything.  Great, he didn’t think this through. Going by Rumlow’s smirk, he did.

“Nice dog,”  he says, picking up Monty’s picture.  “Pitbull?” He chuckles, running his eyes up and down Steve’s body.  “Wouldn’t think someone of your size could handle a dog that vicious.”

“I manage just fine.”  He takes Monty’s picture back, and doesn’t mention that he’s the sweetest dog that’s ever lived.  He never tugs on his lead, and always walks by Steve’s side.

Resting a hand on the back of Steve’s chair, Rumlow leans right into his space.  “Have you given some thought to what I asked you last time we saw each other?”

Steve hums noncommittally.  “I don’t date coworkers.”

“Good thing we’re not coworkers, I work at the Pentagon now.”

Steve has to physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes, he slips one earbud back in his ear, returning to the intelligence he’s translating.  A conversation with Rumlow would not be complete until he mentions the Pentagon at least once.

“What does Mr. Secretary need?”  He asks distractedly.

“He wants you in his office.”  Steve pauses the recording at Rumlow’s words, genuinely surprised.

“What does he want from me?”  Steve asks, locking down his station.  He slips on his cardigan, and grabs his coffee.  Following after Rumlow, he’s dwarfed by his considerable height and width.  Steve’s pretty damn sure his size is all Rumlow likes about him, that, and the fact that he’s among the few to have ever turned him down.

Rumlow holds the door open, arm stretched all the way across.  Steve has to brush past him to get inside. “I have a table for two booked at Massimo’s for tonight, and since you and I are no longer co-workers…”

Steve smiles enigmatically, and politely shuts the door in Rumlow’s face.

He’d tell HR, but Washington, DC is not a nice place.  Unless he wants his career dead in the water, or to be shuffled down to a level one clearance, he has to deal with Rumlow himself.  Besides, Steve can take a lot of bullshit. It’s better if Rumlow’s attention stays on him, instead of some other analyst who doesn’t know the intricacies of batting him off with a stick, without hurting his ego.

“Please take a seat, Mr. Rogers,”  Pierce offers, gesturing to the couch nearest that looming tree.

Pierce stands by the wide floor to ceiling windows that dominate his office, one hand in his pocket.  Steve wonders if he practices that pose in the mirror.

“I see you’re eyeing my tree,”  Pierce says, “It was given to me by the Mozambican defence minister in 2008.  Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Mr. Secretary.”  He clears his throat. “I’m sorry, sir, do you need me to provide translations—”

“According to your file you speak seven languages fluently.”  Pierce turns away from the window. “Yet you have been constrained to an analyst position.”

“I aid in translations, sir.”

“You are unsuitable for field work?”  Pierce asks.

“I failed the physical exam, sir.”  And he can’t climb a vertical wall to save his life, which is apparently a requirement for field agents.  Nevermind that Nat’s been teaching him Brazilian jiu-jitsu.

“Do you know Agent Romanova well?”  Pierce asks abruptly, out of nowhere.

Thrown for a loop, Steve blinks, but he quickly gets back on track.  “It’s Romanoff, sir, she uses the Anglicized version of her name,” Steve corrects.  Nat always said it makes her job easier if people don’t know her gender before they have to work with her—especially when she’s sent to Eastern Europe.

Pierce smiles.  “So, you do?”

Well, they are roommates, but he doesn’t think it necessary to tell Pierce that.  “We work together.”

“Did she seem resentful of her position at SHIELD?”  Pierce asks.

Steve frowns.  “Sir?”

“Did she dislike the way we do things around here?”  Pierce asks, rounding the couch, heading to a cabinet on the other side of his office.  “Did she ever mention her political leanings mid conversation, Rogers? Scotch?” He offers, holding up a glass decanter.

“No thanks,”  Steve mumbles, clutching at his knee.  What the hell is Pierce getting at? Why is he speaking in past term?  Did something happen to Nat?

“Very well,”  he pours himself of finger of amber scotch.  Taking a sip, he leans against the cabinet. “Mr. Rogers, I must insist you think harder, it is a matter of national security.  Did she ever express her admiration for the Kremlin?”

“Sir, I’m not going to tell you how she voted during midterms.”  Steve clenches his jaw. “She’s an American citizen, she defected when she was a teenager, for good reason.  She would never go back.”

Pierce smiles coldly.  “You don’t need to defend her.”

Steve squeezes his coffee cup, cold coffee sloshing inside.  “I am willing to testify for her character. Where is she?”

Pierce huffs, and walks over to the door, whispering to someone outside.  Thrumming with anger, Steve takes the opportunity to discreetly upend his cold coffee right onto Pierce’s precious plant.

He sets the empty cup on the table, just as Jasper Sitwell is rolled into Pierce’s office.  Rollins, a member of Nat’s team, pushes his wheelchair. His legs are in casts, arm in a sling.  According to the report, he was shot in the shoulder. The only reason he survived is because he fell off a balcony, to the courtyard below.

Steve stares at Sitwell in confusion, if he is here...  “Where is Nat?” He demands, voice shaking.

“She’s in the wind,”  Sitwell says.

“The assassin attacked the motorcade,”  Rollins speaks up. “He was decked head to toe in black combat gear, a muzzle over his mouth.  Romanoff and I exchanged gunfire behind cover. But in an effort to supposedly end the conflict without civilian casualties, she engaged him in hand to hand combat.  That’s when they took the opportunity to escape.”

“ _They_ ,”  Steve says blankly.  “You’re accusing Agent Romanoff of collusion with a foreign national.”

“And terrorism on US soil,”  Sitwell adds.

They’re making her a patsy.  Someone important fucked up, or was bribed, and they’ll letting Nat take the fall for it.  The assassin could have kidnapped her, but instead they’re saying she left willingly. It’s such bullshit.

“The Winter Soldier—”

“The Winter _who_?”  Steve interrupts Sitwell.

“You should know, Mr. Rogers, of all people,”  Pierce says. “You linked his meeting with Romanoff in Odessa to the assassin who attempted to take Agent Sitwell’s life two times now.”

“Meeting?  He shot her!”  Steve’s voice goes shrill as he jumps to his feet.  “He nearly killed her.”

“You are emotionally compromised,”  Pierce observes, “But you must remain objective.  American lives depend on our level heads, despite this grave betrayal.  The Winter Soldier has Romanoff’s support now.”

Fuck this shit.  Nat would never betray America.  Especially not for the Soviets. Pierce doesn’t even know what they did to her, but she wakes up screaming some nights because of it.

“Will you sign a release to have the house you share with Romanoff searched?”  Pierce asks.

“I will not,”  Steve says venomously.  How the fuck do they know they’re living together?  Nat’s careful. She has all her mail sent to a P.O. box halfway across town for God’s sake.

Pierce sighs. “Regretfully, Mr. Rogers, the search is already underway.  All your electronics have been confiscated.”

Steve’s jaw drops.  “You can’t do that, no judge would agree to that,”  he protests.

Pierce examines his nails with a nonchalant flair.  “You’ll find that we can. The judicial system can be bypassed when a suspect at large is accused of terrorism.  There is simply no time for the whims of the courts.”

“For justice, you mean.”  Steve narrows his eyes. “Due process.”  His breath catches in his throat, and his voice goes reedy with fear.  “You better have not hurt my dog.”

“What is the status of Mr. Rogers’ canine?”  Pierce asks Rollins. He looks down at his phone, and for one horrible minute Steve’s heart stalls in his chest.  Monty’s a pitbull, and people with guns have a tendency to shoot pitbulls on site, nevermind that Monty’s tail is perpetually wagging.  God. He can’t lose Monty, he’s already lost his ma, Bucky...

“It was left with a neighbour, a Mr. Wilson,”  Rollins says, and Steve lets out a sigh of relief.  Sam has him.

“We will appreciate your aid in locating the Winter Soldier,”  Pierce says. “You found the only image we have of him. And I have been assured you can find him again.”

Of course Steve’s going to find him, that’s not even up for discussion.  It’s the only way to clear Nat’s name.

DC is among the most heavily monitored cities in the world.  There are CCTV cameras everywhere. Even if he tries to stay under the radar, he has to go out to get food, eventually.  Once he does, that’s when they’ll have him, and that’s when Nat gets to come home.


	2. Chapter 2

“Romanoff is not the woman she said she was, huh?”  Rumlow says. He leads Steve back to his desk even though he most certainly doesn’t need an escort.

Rumlow leans against the side of his desk, much too close for comfort.  “She’s innocent,” Steve says shortly.

“It must be terrible, a betrayal like that.  You’ve been together for years now, haven’t you?”  Rumlow simpers. He really doesn’t have the face for pity.

“We are not dating.  Rent is expensive in DC.”  Steve clarifies before Rumlow goes running off to tell his boss.  It really shows the odiousness of Rumlow’s character that he relentlessly harassed someone he thought was in a relationship.  Steve turns his back on him, hoping Rumlow takes the hint.

Rumlow spins his chair back around.  “Now, I know you’ve never been somewhere as fancy as Massimo’s, but it is black tie, and I’m expecting you to show up in something…  flattering.”

Steve makes a face.  He opens his mouth to make some excuse or the other, but stops in his tracks.  Then he considers doing the exact opposite. Normally, Steve doesn’t go for assholes like Rumlow, but he is Pierce’s right hand man.  Which means he knows things. Classified things.

Except, Rumlow’s smart.  He has to be to get where he is, loath as Steve is to admit it.  He’s smart, but he also has the tendency to think with his dick. Tonight would be a great opportunity to get him drunk like a skunk, then ask him why his boss is so eager to put the blame on Nat.  Not to mention what he knows about the Winter Soldier. The only downside is that he actually has to go out with Rumlow.

Nat owes him bigtime for this.

Steve smiles up at Rumlow.  “What time is the reservation?”

***

Steve climbs off his Harley outside his house.  Glancing mournfully at Nat’s empty parking space, he swings his bag over his shoulder, tucking his helmet under his arm.

There’s no doubt in his mind that his house has been bugged to heaven and back again.  There’s no way Nat would return home. He goes over to Sam’s instead.

A councillor at the VA, Steve met Sam when he moved in next door.  His hours are not as chaotic at Steve’s, so whenever both he and Nat have to leave DC he looks after Monty.  Sam’s sister, and nephew are staying with him while she goes through a messy divorce, so it’s unsurprising that Rachel opens the door.  An excited bark from down the hall finally puts to rest the niggling anxiety that Rollins was lying about Monty.

Rachel rushes him into the house.  “Are you alright?” She asks, fawning over him.  “I saw the news, Natasha…”

“It wasn’t her.  Sam?”

“He’s out getting groceries,”  she says, walking with him to the living room where he finds Monty wearing a pink tutu.  Toby pours him a cup of imaginary tea that Monty immediately knocks over in his rush to get to Steve.  Steve drops his bag and helmet, and crouches in front of Monty, letting him lick his face.

He adopted Monty when he was just a little puppy from a member of MI5, James Montgomery Falsworth.  His namesake.

They found the litter during a raid—the last one Steve worked in a joint task force between MI5 and SHIELD.  After the raid, Falsworth went over to Steve’s surveillance van, and dropped the puppies in his lap. One of them, a beauty with a chocolate coat, nibbled on his fingers.  Steve fell in love with Monty right then and there.

UK laws ban pitbulls, unless they have a special exception.  The puppies were ordered to be put down. Thankfully, Falsworth was able to send the other puppies to France to be adopted, but Monty flew home with him a few days later.  He’s been Steve’s steadfast companion ever since.

He rubs a hand down Monty’s back, and hears something crinkle.  Steve could almost cry with relief. He grins, then yelps when Monty licks inside his ear.

Discreetly, he pulls out the piece of paper tucked under his collar, slipping it into his pocket.

“Hey, Rachel?”  Steve says, wandering into the kitchen.  Rachel looks up from her laptop. “Did you guys walk Monty?”

“Not yet.”  She shakes her head.

The front door opens and closes.  “I’m home!” Sam walks into the kitchen, making a beeline straight for Steve, wrapping him up in a hug.  “Those guys, what they said about Natasha.”

“It’s not true, none of it.”

Sam rolls his eyes.  “I know that. Why do _they_ think she’s out there helping a terrorist?”

Steve shrugs, pushing his hair out of his face.  “Because they’re both Russian…? I don’t know. You know how the government is with people who defect, they assume that just because they did it once, they’re willing to do it again.”

“That’s bullshit,”  Sam says, unloading his grocery bags into the fridge.

“Tell me about it.”  The piece of paper in Steve’s pocket feels like a ten pound weight.  “I’m going to walk Monty. But can I ask you guys to put him up for the night?  I have a date.”

“A date.”  Sam turns away from the fridge, a look of utter surprise on his face.  “Now?”

“Don’t ask,”  Steve begs, rubbing a thumb over his temple.  He’s not sure that Sam’s house isn’t bugged either.  Steve glances at Rachel’s laptop helplessly. He works for these guys, he knows how easy it is to hijack a computer’s microphone.  And if someone let them in the house, one request to use the bathroom later, and the whole house is bugged.

Steve’s not being paranoid.  He’s being safe.

Sam closes the fridge door, studying Steve’s face.  Whatever he sees has him nodding. “Sure I’ll look after Monty for you.  Have fun.”

“I’ll try,”  Steve says, pausing.  “Do you have bubblegum, by any chance?  The stuff Toby likes?”

With the tutu returned to its rightful owner, Steve finds Monty’s waste bags, and his lead by the front door.  With a pack of gum tucked in his front pocket next to the note, he heads out.

Walking to the dog park, Monty padding along happily at his side, Steve whistles.  The very picture of innocence. In reality, he’s scanning his surroundings with a critical eye.  Sure enough, right at the end of the street, there's an unmarked van.

They’re not even being subtle.  Either they think he’s an idiot, or they don’t care that he knows they’re there.  Steve bets it’s the latter. As he rounds the corner, a discrete glance in the wing mirror of a parked car shows the van trailing after him.

At the park, he nods at a few other dog owners, but they all look at him funny.  News travels fast, it seems. No one seems eager to start something, or to talk with him for that matter, which suits Steve just fine.  He unclips Monty in the fenced off area, then takes a seat on an unoccupied bench.

Reaching into his pocket he pulls out both the bubblegum, and the note.  He removes the bubblegum from its comic wrapping, and positions the note so if anyone’s watching—with a telephoto lens or not—it looks like he’s reading a cute little bubblegum comic.

_Left DC.  Safe.  Don’t trust anyone.  —N_

He chuckles to really sell the ruse, and pops the gum in his mouth, along with the note.  Chewing away, he sits there for a few more minutes, waiting until Monty tires himself out.

With one whistle, Monty comes padding over, and Steve clips his lead back on.  A scratch to the top of his head somehow prompts Monty to finally relieve himself.

Steve wraps the gum in the comic, and puts it at the bottom of the waste bag.  Bending, he scoops up Monty’s business. With a pretty little bow tied on top, Steve tosses it in the bin.

He’s pretty sure the team surveilling him will not bother with the bubblegum.  Nat’s message is nothing more than fibres by now—not that they know it ever existed.  However, if they do go looking, they’re going to have to dig through Monty’s shit to get it.

Steve whistles the entire walk home.

***

Shivering in a suit he had to literally dig out of his closet, Steve stands outside Massimo’s, waiting for Rumlow.

He’s late.  Although Steve’s pretty sure he’s just watching from his car, trying to establish dominance.  Sure enough, the Jeep he saw turn the corner ten minutes ago, reappears in front of the restaurant.

Rumlow parks and saunters on over with a smarmy smirk, looking Steve up and down.  “Rogers, you clean up nice.” Bending, he aims for Steve’s mouth. Steve turns his cheek just in time, and Rumlow’s dry lips skate over his jaw.  If this is what he’s going to be fending off all night, he might just crack before Rumlow does.

Rumlow orders a whiskey the moment they’re seated.  Steve almost rolls his eyes. What a manly man.

Once the waitress has whisked away their menus, it finally sinks in that he’s sitting across the table from Brock Rumlow without any idea of how to make conversation with him.  It’s somehow even worse than that time Nat set him up with a lobbyist.

Steve sighs.  “How is the Pentagon?”

The waitress returns with Rumlow’s whiskey, and he doesn’t even thank her.  If Steve lives through this, he’s going to tip her so well.

“You’re interested in the work I do with the secretary?”  Rumlow takes a sip from his glass, eyes not leaving Steve in the process.  This might be easier than expected, all he needs to do is turn up the charm a few dozen watts.

Looking up at Rumlow from under his lashes, he bats them a few times, pinky dragging along the designs on the tablecloth.  Steve can be coquettish when he wants to be, after all, he learned from the best.

“I’ve always admired you field agents.  You’re all very capable.”

For one horrible second Steve thinks he overdid it, but then a slow smile slides over Rumlow’s face.  “You’d know, wouldn’t you? You were my assist for a few years. I do miss your gorgeous voice in my ear, it used to keep me warm at night.  Still does.”

Of all the things he wishes he didn’t know, the fact that Rumlow gets off to his voice is at the top of that list.

“What heroics are you up to now?”  Steve asks, biting his lip in a move he knows drives the boys wild.  “I bet Mr. Pierce has you doing all sorts of dangerous things.”

Rumlow chuckles, eyes dark.  “You’d be surprised.”

“By what?”  Steve pushes.

Rumlow smirks, and it isn’t lust that burns in his eyes.  Steve has a terrible feeling Rumlow knows exactly what he’s doing.  “If I told you, I’d have to kill you. And I really don’t want to kill you.”

Steve swallows, thankful they’re in a crowded restaurant.  If Nat saw him, she’d smack him upside the head. Then again, if Nat was here she’d know how to get the upper hand.  She’d reduce Rumlow into nothing more than a sniveling frog.

Steve leans back, laughing nervously, hoping to diffuse the situation, but Rumlow’s hand darts across the table.  His fingers wrap around Steve’s wrist in a death grip. “You shouldn’t play games with things you don’t understand.”

Steve winces as his bones creak.  He tries to pull away, but can’t. He doesn’t have the leverage.

Shit, shit, _shit_.

A shadow falls over the table, and Steve looks up, panicked.  He fully expects the waitress, instead a man in a waiter’s uniform stands before them, brown hair to his shoulders.  A white towel is draped over his arm, like he’s about to serve them champagne. A muzzle covers the lower half of his face.

“Fuck—”  Rumlow starts, but is immediately cut off when the waiter’s towel explodes.  Rumlow gurgles, clutching at his neck, blood splattered face gone pale with shock.  The waiter drops the towel, revealing a pistol with a silencer screwed on the end. He places it, point blank on Rumlow’s chest, and pulls the trigger again.  Rumlow’s arms flop as a ragged hole appears on his chest, cloth burnt around the edges.

Someone’s screaming, and it’s only when Steve scrambles back that he realizes it’s him.

The restaurant falls into chaos.  People in formal dress scramble over each other in a rush for the exit.  Steve trips over his chair, landing awkwardly on his tailbone. He tries to get away, but the waiter—no, the assassin—grabs him by the hand, yanking him to his feet.  Steve shrieks, scratching at him, but the assassin hauls him away from Rumlow’s corpse.

Staff yell and scatter when the assassin shoulders himself through the swinging kitchen doors, Steve stumbling behind him.  Someone must have pulled the fire alarm, because klaxons sound, and his ears pop as water rains down from the sprinklers. A knife sits on the counter, and Steve grabs it as he’s dragged past.

The assassin kicks open the side door, and his breath fogs in the air.  He turns around, and Steve takes the opportunity to bring down the knife.  With a loud screech, it glances off the assassin’s left arm. Steve drops it, clutching his hand in pain.

The assassin doesn’t even react.  He hauls Steve around the side of the building, cut sleeve flapping in the wind, revealing a flash of silver.

People huddle together across the street, and police sirens wail in the distance.  Steve yells, but a hand is clamped over his mouth. The lights flash on Rumlow’s Jeep as the doors are unlocked, and Steve is pushed into the passenger's seat.  The seatbelt is drawn across his body, fixing him in place. Calmly, the assassin loosens his bowtie, and unbuttons his jacket to reveal a double shoulder holster, two Glocks glaring back at him.

God, Steve is so screwed.  He wheezes, and his heart clenches in his chest.

The assassin climbs into the driver’s side, staring at him.  He’s well aware of what he looks like when he’s having an attack, and it isn’t pretty.  The assassin reaches for him, and Steve tries to pull away, but he doesn’t get very far.  Hands pat all along the front of his jacket, passing by his phone, until…

The assassin grips him by the back of his neck, and puts the inhaler in his mouth.  He only lets go when Steve has a good enough grip on it. Steve takes two puffs, before collapsing into a pile of exhausted, terrified mush.

Blinking slowly, he watches the assassin adjust the mirrors, then smash the GPS with his metal hand, flinging it out the window.  Finally, he pulls them out of the lot, easy as pie.

The assassin shoulders off his jacket and throws it in the back, along with a pair of white gloves.  Unclipping his holsters, the guns join his jacket. The bowtie ends up discarded on the floorboards. He undresses until he wears nothing but a black henley, dress pants, and that damn muzzle on his face.  Only then does he put on his seat belt.

“Who the fuck are you?”  Steve’s voice shakes as they merge onto the freeway.

The assassin glances at him.  Passing street lights reflect in his eyes, and all Steve can think is that looks incredibly sad.

***

**_Now_ **

A phone rings from the back of the Jeep.  It’s not his, the assassin smashed his SIM card to bits just outside of DC.  Steve tries to ignore it, but the caller is damn persistent.

Eventually, Steve points the Glock right at the assassin.  “Don’t move,” he warns, pulling over to the shoulder. With an eye trained for any sharp movements, Steve rummages in the back, feeling around for the jacket.  He grabs it, and pulls a burner from the inner pocket. The caller’s number is unlisted.

Steve accepts it anyway.  Putting the phone to his ear, he waits.  Steve watches the assassin openly, looking for tics, anything, but his face—at least what Steve can see of it—is blank.

“ _Tovarishch_ ,”  says the voice on the other end,  “Steve.”

“What the fuck, Nat?”  Steve spits. “If that’s a joke, it isn’t funny.”

“I hope you haven’t killed him,”  she says calmly. Steve feels anything but calm.  “I’m proud of you for getting the jump on him, but let’s be honest, he probably let you.”

“And I repeat, what the actual fuck, Nat?”  His voice goes shrill. “Don’t tell me Alexander fucking Pierce is right, and you’ve actually defected.”  At Pierce’s name, the assassin shifts in his seat, and Steve stares wide-eyed at him. “Talk,” Steve chokes out.  “Now.”

“The man sitting beside you is an American citizen, brainwashed by the Soviets.  He has broken from his conditioning, and intends to bring down his former captors, an organization that has infiltrated the US government in some of its highest positions,”  she says this all, completely deadpan.

Steve lets out a short, disbelieving laugh.  “You expect me to believe that he’s what? The Manchurian Candidate?  Nat, he’s killed people, he killed Rumlow right in front of me. He tried to kill Sitwell twice, on two separate occasions.  Whatever bullshit he’s fed you, it’s all lies. Tell me where you are, and I’ll come get you. We’ll take him back to the Triskelion, together.”

“The Triskelion is compromised.  Rumlow and Sitwell are Hydra, along with numerous other agents,”  Nat says.

“Hydra,”  Steve repeats skeptically, but the name tugs at his memory.  Months ago he was called into a meeting between Director Fury and Commander Hill.  They wanted him to translate shipping logs from a Russian freighter.

It had stumped him at the time, the phrase the Russians used over and over again.  Not because he didn’t know what it was, but because of its strange context. _Zmei Gorynich_ refers to a specific creature in Russian mythology; a many-headed dragon or serpent.  But within the context of the logs, Steve decided ‘Hydra’ was a better translation.

“Hydra is a secret organization intent on destroying, then rebuilding civilization according to their ideals.  Think Big Brother on steroids.”

“That’s crazy,”  Steve argues, “The government vets new hires.”

“Not when the people doing the vetting are Hydra.”

Steve clenches his jaw.  “Prove it.”

“Tell him to take off the mask,”  she says simply.

Steve looks at the assassin, and the assassin looks back at him.  “Turn around,” Steve orders, and he does. Steve shifts aside his long hair, and unsnaps the clasp at his neck.  He pulls back, fully expecting the assassin to try and bite off his fingers, but he stays completely still. The muzzle falls, and the phone slips from Steve’s grip.

His eyes are the exact same grey they've always been.  How did Steve not recognize his eyes?

“Bucky?”  Steve’s voice cracks.  “You’re dead.”

“Almost.  Not quite.”  Bucky’s voice is the same, despite all the years gone by.  Steve wants to cry.

“They told us you died.  They gave Winifred the flag from your coffin.  She has it framed and mounted above her fireplace,”  he says all in a rush. “They buried you in Arlington.  I have a wreath sent every year.”

But he never visits.  God forgive him, he never visits.

“They buried someone in Arlington, but it wasn’t me.”

Steve stares at him, horrified.  He returns the phone to his ear. “Nat,”  he says, voice all wobbly. “What...?”

“He took off his mask while we were engaged in hand to hand, and I recognized him from the picture you kept in your wallet.”

Steve sputters, unable to take his eyes off Bucky.  “I stopped carrying that years ago.”

It hurt too much, Steve doesn’t say.  It’s a wound that never really healed.

The picture was of Bucky with his arm thrown over Steve’s shoulder, laughing at something one of them said.  It was taken in a photobooth, back when they were teenagers. He kept it—he could never get rid of it—but it’s locked away in a safety deposit box, with all the negatives he has of his ma.  Winifred has the only other copy.

“I have a very good memory,”  she says. Tears blur in his eyes, until he can’t see anything, not even Bucky.  “Do you believe me now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tovarishch = Comrade, which is why Steve is so pissed. Natasha doesn't have the greatest comedic timing...


	3. Chapter 3

They ditch the Jeep behind a ridge hidden from the road.  Bucky slips back into his shoulder holsters and knife sheaths, before pulling out the second Glock.  Wordlessly, he slides open the clip, and runs his fingers along the bullets, then hands it to Steve. Grip first.

Steve can’t help staring at him.  Back in high school Bucky was a loud, rambunctious lothario.  Now he’s the complete opposite. Silent, introspective, with eyes that could look right through a person.  He’s nothing like the boy he grew up with, yet he’s everything Steve was missing from his life.

Steve follows after Bucky as they trudge through the woods.  Apparently there’s a safehouse a few miles to the south of their position, where they’re to lay low for a few days until Nat contacts them again.  There’s no cell service in the woods, but a satellite phone is waiting for them.

Halfway through the first mile Steve finally breaks the silence.  “Why did you recruit Nat?”

Bucky looks over his shoulder.  “She’s your friend.”

“She could have been Hydra,”  Steve says. “I might have terrible judgement.  After all, I agreed to a date with Rumlow.”

“She isn’t.”  Bucky taps the side of his head.  “I know the name of every single Hydra agent in the US government, and she isn’t one of them.”

“Everyone?  What about President Ellis?”  Steve asks, half joking, half hoping it isn’t true.

“No.”  Bucky stops, and waits for Steve to catch up.  “Besides, I know what you were doing with Rumlow, you only bat your lashes at people you really hate.”

“What?!”  Steve squawks, crossing his arms over his chest.  “I do not.”

“You’re forgetting.  I was there when you threatened a varsity jock-head who pushed a freshman.”  Bucky quirks a brow. “What’d you say, that you would flirt with him in front of the whole school if he did it again?”

Steve kicks at a fallen stick.  Sheepish. “I said I would kick his ass if he did it again.”

“While flirting aggressively,”  Bucky prods.

Steve rolls his eyes.  “Yes, while flirting aggressively.”

Bucky grins.  He nudges Steve’s shoulder.  “C’mon, I know you’re itching to ask me something.”

Steve sighs in relief.  There’s a lot of things Steve is itching to ask.  He settles for something quite tame. “You said Rumlow and Sitwell were Hydra, what about Jack Rollins?”

“Yes,”  Bucky says, resuming walking, feet padding silently along the moss and lichen undergrowth.

“Nick Fury?”

“Definitely not.”

Steve steps over a gnarled tree root.  “Why definitely?”

“He’s the one who rescued me.”

Steve’s jaw drops.  “Really?”

“He found me on a Russian freighter in the middle of the Atlantic, purely by chance.  He was there looking for information on moles in SHIELD, but instead found me strapped to a table.”

Steve winces.  From the moment he saw Bucky’s face, Steve knew that he had been tortured.  It’s the only way Bucky would have turned against his country. He’s loyal, that’s always what made Bucky, Bucky.  His loyalty. To his family, his country. To Steve. 

Bucky entered the army right out of high school, following in his dad’s footsteps.  He was brilliant, accepting promotion after promotion. He could have been an NCO; would have made sergeant in a year.  Then the army sent him on a classified mission overseas, and he came home in a wooden box.

Bucky sighs.  “Fury took me to a hospital in a sovereign state without any ties to Hydra or the US.  They got all the shit out of my head. Now here I am. Home at last.”

They walk in silence for a few moments longer.  Steve stares up at the canopy, at the grey skies beyond.  He says, “Alexander Pierce.”

Bucky pauses for a moment, but then,  “He’s the leader of the American branch.”

Steve huffs.  That's the least surprising news he's heard all day.

***

Bucky tugs at the rotting pieces of wood boarding up the cabin, and they peel away like butter.  He slips a key into the lock, and the door opens with barely a creak. A plume of dust rises in the air, but once they’re inside, Steve finds the cabin cleaned to within an inch of its life.  Someone has been here recently.

“There’s no power, so we’ll be living off canned food for the next few days,”  Bucky says, gesturing to the single counter and cabinet acting as the kitchen, “There’s a camp stove, and a good supply of propane.  Just make sure the window is open when you use it, or you’ll kill us both.”

Steve glances around the small space.  It’s about the same size as his living room.  By the kitchen area sits a round table with two chairs.  A bed is tucked in the corner, covered by a white sheet fit with perfect hospital corners.  A plain felted blanket is folded on top, two pillows squeezed in next to each other. Across the room is a fireplace, swept free of ash, but there’s no firewood stacked nearby to feed it.

“I suppose a fire is off limits?”

“The smoke is like a beacon,”  Bucky says. He goes to the window, pushing aside a set of blackout curtains.  “There’s a compost toilet in the back. You have to go outside, so make sure you bring a gun.  The lights attract black bears sometimes, but they’re usually just curious.” Bucky walks to a curtained off area, opening it to reveal a small copper tub shaped like an egg.  Just like the kind pioneers used to bathe. A tap hangs over the edge, snaking up from the roughly hewn floorboards. “The water isn’t heated, but it’s clean, Just don’t drink it.  We have bottled water for that.”

“You’ve been living here a while?”  Steve says.

Bucky nods.  Reaching for a shelf, he takes down a towel, then a washcloth, a bar of white soap on top.  “Since I got back from Wakanda.”

“Wakanda?  That was were Fury took you to get better?”

“To be deprogrammed, yes.”  He tucks a stand of hair behind his ear, then hands the towel to Steve.  “Have a bath, you stink.”

Steve cracks a grin.  “Well you don’t smell like a breath of fresh air either.”

Bucky smiles faintly.  Lifting his right hand, he rubs his thumb under Steve’s cheekbone.  “Make sure you wash behind your ears,” he says softly, closing the curtain behind him.

Light streams in from the small opaque window as Steve shivers in the tub.  It’s not the worst bath he’s ever taken, but it’s pretty high up on the list.  The soap doesn’t lather very well, and smells like unrefined glycerine, but he makes sure to clear his ears and face properly.  The water’s pretty hard, and as he climbs out of the tub, it dries into spots of white deposit on the copper. He rinses down the sides, but only vinegar will really get it clean again.

The towel is big enough to wrap him from shoulder to knee, and he swaddles it around himself like a cape.

He walks into the main room, and finds Bucky sitting on the carpet by the bed with a book in his hand.  A shaft of sunlight illuminates the pages. Two pairs of sweatpants, underwear, socks, and sweatshirts are folded on the covers.

“You’re done?”  Bucky says, looking up.  He puts a bookmark between the pages, and that’s when Steve sees the cover.  He bursts out laughing.

“Why are you reading  _ Twilight _ ?”  Steve chuckles, and the towel slips to his elbows.  Bucky’s gaze flickers to his bared shoulders, remaining fixed for an exceedingly long time.  Steve bites his lip, and his pulse races.

“It came with the cabin.”  Bucky tears his eyes away, pointing to a shelf containing an extensive collection vampire-themed literature, at least five Anne Rice novels, and for some reason an information guide on ridding one’s home of bed bugs.  Whoever stocked the cabin really has a thing for blood-sucking creatures of the night.

“Wow,”  Steve says, amused.

Bucky brushes past him as he grabs the bigger set of clothes.  “Dress quickly, or you’ll catch a cold.” He hesitates, like he wants to say something else, but he just dips his head.  “Hang the towels on the dryer.”

Steve’s not sure where the courage comes from—probably that long look Bucky gave him—but before he hears the curtain being pulled, he drops the towel.  And then, the sugar sweet sound of a curtain ring popping its clasp. Oh yeah, Steve’s still got it.

He slips into the clothes left for him, plucking at the sleeves.  The sweater and pants fit perfectly. He pads on socked feet over to the window.  Peering outside, he watches the sun set through the trees, a warm orange glow.

The curtain swooshes, and Steve whirls around to find a fully dressed Bucky rubbing a towel through his wet hair.  Steve still can’t get over the fact that his hair is so long. When he just joined the army, he had it shaved to a tight buzz.

“You hungry?”  Bucky asks, hanging his towel on the dryer beside Steve’s.

“What’s for dinner?”

“I have canned bread, and soup.  Refried beans too, if you really want, but you always got gassy, so I wouldn’t recommend.”

Steve breaks out into a helpless smile.  “Shut it. Canned bread, really?”

Bucky shrugs.  “It’s pretty good.”

With the window cracked open, and the soup cooling in bowls, Bucky fries up slices of canned bread in ghee.  He gives Steve a piece, and yeah, it’s not that bad.

Sitting at the table, they eat dinner by the light of a camp torch.  Steve glances at Bucky every once in a while. Half of him wants to make sure that he’s still there.  The other half still can’t believe that he’s sitting across from his best friend. That he’s alive.

Steve’s not going to ask how Bucky fell into Hydra’s hands.  Or how he lost his left arm. Bucky will tell him if he wants to.  However, other things itch at him until he can’t help but voice them.

“How did you survive the grenade in Odessa?”

Bucky looks up from his soup, and sets down the spoon.  “Caught it in my hand,” he says, opening and closing his metal hand.  “It’s titanium reinforced with carbon fibres. Course it blew to smithereens, but they gave me a new one after they brought me in.  Can't have the Fist of Hydra without a fist.”

“Can I touch it?”  He asks, and wordlessly, Bucky reaches across the table, slipping his hand into Steve’s.  “It’s cold,” he remarks, thumb tracing along the ridges, his face reflected back in the smooth surface.

“Yeah.  It’s metal.”  Steve gives him a sharp look, but Bucky just shrugs innocently.

“Can you feel anything?”  Steve spreads Bucky’s palm open on the table, ghosting his fingers over it.

Bucky shakes his head.  “Nothing. I know it’s there, that’s about it.”  Drawing his metal hand out of Steve’s grip, he replaces it with his flesh and blood one.  “This one works just fine.”

Steve rubs his fingers over Bucky’s knuckles, marveling at the hair growing in little tufts.  At the rough calluses on his fingertips. His pinks palms, creases deep and apparent. Steve bends, and presses a kiss to the back of his hand.  He pulls away, smiling sheepishly.

“I’m guessing we’re sharing the…”  He trails off as Bucky stands. Rounding the table, he pulls Steve to his feet, then wraps his arms around him.  It’s so unexpected, Steve lets out a little noise of surprise, but he quickly gets with the program. He clutches at the back of Bucky’s sweater.  Bucky’s hair tickles his nose, but he couldn’t give the slightest fuck. He just buries his face in Bucky’s neck and hangs on.

“You still owe me a dance,”  Bucky rumbles. “Prom.”

Of all the things to remember, of course it’s Steve being a complete wallflower at their prom.  “I’m not grinding up on you,” he whispers.

“Not expecting you to, honey,”  Bucky says, spinning them slowly,  “We’re not teenagers anymore.”

Bucky guides them around in little circles as Steve hums some weird amalgamation of German folk songs he’s had stuck in his head for the past few months.  Bucky’s hand slips into Steve’s hair, and he rests his head on Bucky’s chest, closing his eyes.

“Fury gave me your file,”  Bucky murmurs, breaking the quiet.

“He did?”  Steve says softly, surprised.  “Why?”

“I asked nicely.”  He pets Steve’s hair.  “I’m so proud of you. Of everything you’ve done.”

Steve sniffs, smiling against Bucky’s chest.  “That means a lot, Buck.”

Bucky pulls back, and Steve looks up at him curiously.  He kisses Steve’s temple ever so gently, lips smooth. In turn, Steve reaches up and touches Bucky’s cheek, lightly turning his face.  Bucky closes the gap between them.

They weren’t like this, before.  They lived in each other’s pockets, sure, and there was always a potentiality, but their feelings stayed in the peripherals.  Mostly, Steve was scared. High school couples usually break up in their first year of college. He didn’t want that to happen to them.  Bucky was going to travel all over the world, while Steve was stuck in school for however long it took to get his masters. That’s the stupid reason he never told Bucky how he felt.  He always figured they’d have the rest of their lives.

At Bucky’s funeral, all he could think, as they lowered his coffin into the cold, hard ground was that he died not knowing just how much Steve loved him.

Bucky kisses are everything Steve’s wanted since he was a teenager.  He picks Steve up by the hips, and sets him on the table. Standing between his legs, he holds Steve’s face in his hands, holds him like he’s something precious.  He’s gentle, soft, but relentless. He kisses like he has something to prove, and to him, maybe he does.

Steve slips his hands under Bucky’s sweater.  Bucky swears quietly, breaking the kiss, but he doesn’t go far.  “Your hands are so cold,” he whispers against Steve’s cheek.

“Then warm them up,”  Steve says, kissing Bucky’s nose, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.  He licks once, softly, at Bucky’s bottom lip. “Take me to bed.”

Bucky does.

Later, they lie beneath the covers, curled up on the small mattress.  Cooling off.

“I used to dream about you.”  Bucky reaches across the pillow, tucking a strand of Steve’s hair behind his ear.  “I’d wake up and think they were just fantasies. I didn’t know any American boys with blue eyes like the sky,”  Bucky says, a faint accent slipping into his voice. “They made me think I grew up in some hamlet outside of Novgorod, that my parents were dead in a fire, and all I had left was my country.  To them, serving Hydra was serving Russia.” He frowns, and a little furrow forms between his brows. “I’m pretty sure you had glasses.”

“The magic of laser eye correction.”  Steve shifts closer, and Bucky drapes his arm over his waist.  Steve kisses his chin. “I have a dog.”

“Really?”  Bucky says, surprised.  “With your asthma?”

“I vacuum often.  Besides, he’s a short hair breed.  He’s really sweet, I think you’ll like him.”

“I know I will,”  Bucky sighs happily, closing his eyes he swings a leg over Steve’s hip.  “What’s his name?”

“Monty.”

Bucky cracks one eye open.  “Hmm, British?”

Steve chuckles, combing his fingers through Bucky’s chest hair.  “Funny story, that.”

Bucky’s chest rumbles.  “You can tell me later,”  he murmurs, rolling them so Steve lies under him.  Hovering above him, Bucky bends and kisses Steve’s cheek, nudging his nose along his jaw.  Steve drops his hands to Bucky’s waist.

“You’re insatiable.”  Steve laughs as Bucky kisses down his neck.

“I’m not hearing any complaints,”  Bucky says, slipping all the way down Steve’s body.  Steve stares up at the ceiling, throat bobbing. Bucky spreads his thighs, settling in between them.  Steve glances down, but can’t see anything besides a lump under the covers. “Speechless?” Bucky teases, voice muffled.

“Yeah.”  His voice catches in his throat as Bucky’s lips whisper over his inner thighs.  His breath warm, he exhales over Steve’s interested cock, then licks from the bottom of the shaft all the way to the tip.  Steve throws his head back. Fisting in hand in the pillow, he hears something tear.

“Hey now,”  Bucky says, amused,  “Don’t go ruining my pillows.”

“Bite me,”  Steve mutters, and then Bucky does exactly that.  He nips at the meaty part of his thigh, sucking the skin like he’s one of the vampires in those books he’s reading.  “Jesus Christ.”

“Actually, my name—”

“Don’t you say it, don’t you fucking say it,”  Steve says all in a rush, laughing.

“I haven’t even gotten started.”  Bucky sucks Steve’s cock into his mouth.

If someone told him two days ago that he’d soon have a long haired, very much alive Bucky Barnes sucking his dick, he probably would have burst into tears.  Not many people get second chances. Steve’s going to make the most of this one.

Bucky holds his hips down, and Steve can just picture his mouth stretching all around him, cheeks sucked in, lips pink.  Steve’s making some embarrassing noises, but the way Bucky’s thrusting into the mattress likely means he doesn’t mind.

“Bucky,”  Steve whines, plucking at the blanket over his head,  “I’m close. I want to see you, baby.”

Bucky pulls off, and in the blink of an eye, he slides up Steve’s body, hand replacing his mouth.  He kisses Steve desperately, sloppily, hand moving rhythmically. Steve comes with a sharp groan that’s swallowed immediately in a kiss.  Bucky rests his forehead against Steve’s, then uses his come covered hand to jerk himself off.

Steve rubs his fingers over Bucky’s temple, caresses his brows, his closed eyelids.  He whispers sweet nothings in his ear. It’s only when he murmurs the three little words he should have said more than a decade ago that Bucky comes with a gasp.

“I love you too,”  Bucky says, his eyes fluttering open, grey and so, so beautiful.

***

The satellite phone rings during the middle of their second day in the cabin.  Bucky’s in the bath, so Steve picks it up.

“Get out of there,”  Nat says immediately.  She sounds out of breath, like she’s been running.  “They’re coming.”

“Shit,”  Steve swears.  “Bucky!” He calls out,  “We’ve gotta go.”

Steve nearly trips over his feet in his rush to grab the emergency bag under the bed.  “What happened?” He asks Nat.

“Rumlow’s car had a secondary tracking device installed under the chassis.  It’s only a matter of time until they find the safehouse.”

Bucky pushes into the main room a scant minute later, fully dressed, hair tied up, water droplets clinging to his stubble.  “What’s our status?” he asks. Steve tosses the phone to him so he can ask Nat herself.

Steve pulls on a hoodie, and grabs the Glock from the bag.  A faint rumbling sounds in the distance, and both he and Bucky freeze.

“Do you hear that?”  He whispers.

“ATVs,”  Bucky spits,  “At least three.  They’re close.” He screws his lips.  “Okay, change of plan.” He reaches into the dresser and pulls out a rifle.  “We stay, and use the house as cover. Got that, Romanoff?” He nods at something she says, then hangs up the phone.

“These walls aren’t that thick, we’re sitting ducks,”  Steve argues.

“It doesn’t look like much, but its reinforced with layers of sheet metal.  The windows and the door are the only weak spots.” He tosses a rifle to Steve.  “You know how to use this, right?”

“Do I know how to use—I thought you read my file!”  He takes the rifle, slipping a box of ammunition into his hoodie pocket.

He’s about to peek out the curtain, but before he can, Bucky grabs him by the forearm.  He kisses him, quick and hard. “For luck.”

Steve grabs his chin, and gives him another peck for good measure.  Bucky grins, toothy and wonderful. “I don’t need luck. I’ve got you, babe.”

They take up position by the windows flanking the door, the cabinet moved in front of it, acting as a blockade.  Without moving the curtain, Steve discretely slides open the window. “What’s the plan?” He whispers to Bucky.

“Hard and fast.  The woods out back are too thick for ATVs.  They’ll drive up the hill, notice the cabin, and proceed on foot.  We pick off as many as we can, then we split up, I’ll cover the front, you do the back.  Good?”

“Yeah.”  He cocks his head, the ATVs are getting louder.  They’re almost here. Steve sends up a prayer to whomever might be listening, and rests the rifle on the window ledge, waiting.

The moment the Hydra agents roll to the top of the hill, Bucky lets out the first shot.  He makes it clean, through and through. Steve is soon to follow. The men shout, and scatter, but one, two, three shots later from Bucky’s gun, and an ATV explodes in flames, taking the driver with it.  Jesus. Bucky would have had to hit the battery pack, spot on.

A couple of men slip out of their field of view.  Steve extracts his gun, and steals across the room.

Taking up position by the back window, he reloads his rifle, then peers into the thick woods, scanning back and forth.  Spotting a dark shape hiding behind a tree, he fires, but misses as they duck for cover.

His heart beats a mile a minute, and almost gives out when he hears the familiar whistle of a flying grenade.  Steve dives behind the bed just in time for it to hit the front door, exploding. Splinters fly everywhere, but Steve curls into a protective ball.

“Bucky!”  He screams, eyes wide as he spots splinters as thick as his finger lodged in the walls.  Bucky was right next to that.

“I’m fine, I’m good,”  Bucky says. He doesn’t sound hurt, but Steve worries anyway.

The explosion drew some of the men from cover, and Steve picks one off, before the others melt back into the woods.  Machine gun fire peppers the siding, and Steve crouches beneath the window, just in time for it to shatter into pieces, raining down on him.  His arms curl around his head, but his hoodie catches the worst of it.

Shaking the glass out of his hair, he grabs his phone from the dresser.  He takes a quick snap out the window, before a shot nearly takes his hand clean off.  Breathing heavily, he scans the photo. The man with the machine gun is hiding behind the outhouse.  If Steve aims out the bathroom window, he’ll have a clear shot.

Rolling, so he doesn’t step on glass, he crawls under the bathroom curtain.  Ever so gently, he wiggles open the small window, just so he can fit the tip of the rifle barrel through.  Bending, he aims through the scope, and fires.

The force of it knocks the man on his ass, and another shot finishes him off.  With his new vantage point, the others are quickly picked off.

Steve stumbles out to the front, where Bucky’s crouched beside the remains of the door.  His Glock in hand, he exchanges fire with the last man left, who keeps ducking behind a large oak.  All his attention is focused on Bucky, he doesn’t even see Steve in the shadows.

Steve takes him out with the last bullet in the gun.

Collapsing on his knees, Steve scrambles for Bucky’s face, pulling him close.  With their foreheads pressed together, Steve whispers, over and over again, “Are you okay?  Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,”  Bucky reassures quietly, combing Steve’s hair back from his face.  His thumb caresses his brow bone. It stings. The glass must have cut him.

“How?  I thought for sure the grenade…”

Bucky points over his shoulder to the fireplace.  “Hid in there.”

Steve drops his head to Bucky’s shoulder, laughing and laughing until he starts crying.  Bucky climbs to his feet and fetches his inhaler from the bag.

“C’mon,”  Bucky says, wiping away Steve’s tears after he’s taken a few puffs of medicine.  “We have to leave.”

**Author's Note:**

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